Chapter 6: What the Lawyer Found
I called the elder law attorney from the driveway of my mother's house at seven-thirty Monday morning.
Her name was Patricia Holt.
A colleague from the hospital had recommended her three weeks earlier — before I even booked my flight home.
I had not known exactly what I would find.
But I had known something was wrong from the tone of my mother's voice on our last call, the way she had gone quiet when I asked about the house, the way she had changed the subject when I mentioned Derek.
"I've reviewed the documents you sent," Patricia said.
"The power of attorney is real.
It was properly notarized.
But there are several things about it I want you to see in person."
I drove to her office.
She had the documents spread across the conference table when I arrived — the power of attorney, the bank statements, a printed copy of the deed, and something else I hadn't sent her.
"Where did that come from?" I asked.
"I pulled the property tax records," she said.
"Someone filed a change of mailing address on this property fourteen months ago.
All correspondence — tax notices, any official county mail — was redirected." She slid the paper toward me.
"To Derek and Melissa's previous address."
I sat down.
"They were intercepting the mail," I said.
"It appears so.
Which means if the county had sent any notice related to the property — a lien inquiry, a title question, anything — your mother would never have seen it." Patricia sat across from me and folded her hands.
"The power of attorney gives Derek authority over your mother's financial affairs.
It was signed fourteen months ago.
The bank withdrawals began thirteen months ago."
"One month after she signed."
"Yes."
I looked at the bank statements again.
The same number.
Every month.
Neat and regular, like a subscription.
"Can we challenge the power of attorney?"
"We can try.
The question is whether your mother understood what she was signing and signed it freely." Patricia paused.
"Did she?"
I thought of my mother's face at the kitchen sink.
They said it was nothing.
"She thought she was signing something to help with the bills," I said.
"She didn't know it gave him control over her finances."
"That may be enough to argue undue influence," Patricia said.
"Especially combined with the living conditions you've described.
I'd like to speak with your mother directly, with your permission.
And I want to know whether there are any other documents — anything else she may have signed in the last two years."
My stomach dropped.
"Like what?"
"A will amendment.
A beneficiary change.
A loan agreement using the property as collateral." She said it plainly, without softening it.
"If they redirected the mail and had power of attorney over her finances, I want to make sure the property itself is still clean."
I drove back to the house and sat at the kitchen table with my mother and a cup of tea she made without being asked — the first time I had seen her move freely in her own kitchen since I arrived.
"Mom, I need to ask you something and I need you to be completely honest with me."
She wrapped both hands around her mug.
"All right."
"In the last two years, did Derek or Melissa ever ask you to sign anything else?
Anything at all?"
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she stood up and went to the bedroom — her bedroom now, the door open, the folding bed already gone — and came back with a small tin box I recognized from my childhood.
She set it on the table and opened it.
Inside, beneath an old photograph of my father, was a single folded document.
I unfolded it.
My hands went cold.
It was a quitclaim deed.
Transferring the property from my name to Derek's.
Unsigned.
May you like
But my mother's name was on the witness line.
And the date was three weeks from today.
